Storms
by Dieformygoddamnship
Summary: A short drabble thing. Style.


**A/N: Well this has been sitting on my laptop since the start of the year when we had to write this short creative writing practice thing, where each paragraph was supposed to be about the weather or the street they were on or whatever (I cannot remember exactly and only breezed over this to make sure there are still no glaring errors...). It turned into this and I thought I should probably upload it. So enjoy. ^.^**

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**Storms**

The man could be mistaken for a boy. He was walking, footsteps unsure in his large black boots, too big and too tall as he tried to make up for his height. His favourite trench coat did nothing to keep out the cold and the sleet, the little white flakes of ice contrasting against his dark coat and jeans as they gathered in any and every crevice they could, way too icy for them to melt, instead freezing as they touched. He was heading for shelter, face pale but for the pink streaked across his high cheekbones and smallish nose. The only colour on him was that pinky-red and the bright red of his curling hair, the deep emerald-green of his eyes, shiny in an unnatural way.

The street ran up a steep hill, finally joining to separate roads, both which swung around back to the main street in the town. One was the road he was headed for, the other one he had never bothered to traverse. Heavy rain slammed against the asphalt with a not-quite-stereotypical pitter-patter, more like an insistent tapping on a glass roof, large fat droplets insistently capturing every tree, house and car in its embrace, steadily building in the gutters and running, bubbling merrily, down to the bottom. Not even the drainage could handle the skies tears; it just sent it on its way, carrying all the debris that the gutters usually claimed – leaves, twigs, dead bugs, gum wrappers, rubbish – out of its grasp.

The wind howled with all the fury of a dragon whose hoard has been infiltrated. It was not necessarily cold, but just whipped past so quickly it felt like it carried the person along with it, leaving an uncomfortable chill deep down in the marrow. The gale thrashed and slashed and battered itself up against everything, ripping leaves and whole branches from trees, mail boxes from the earth and antennas from houses. Anything left out, forgotten in the rush to get to a safe place, was claimed with greedy fingers and flung off as far as it could muster. The objects shattered, splintered and cracked, and as the sounds of the broken were engulfed before they could be brought to anything's ears the wind seemed to cackle in triumph.

There was a sound, something one would not think you could hear in such a storm, a small whine that did not belong to the winds voice. Then a rustle and the clatter of clawed paws against metal. The man wondered where the animal was hiding, but there seemed to be no hiding spot for any creature, not even him. The sound became louder and when he pivoted, almost slipping over on the wet ground, a small furry head peeped out at him, drenched. And then it was gone, and the red-haired man sighed.

He finally reached the house he was aiming for, jogged awkwardly in his too-big boots up to the sleek wooden front door. He glared back at the tiled steps and drenched garden, the things that were usually gorgeous and now just made it ten times harder to walk. The green-eyed man banged a fist against the door, then changed tactic and slammed the toe of his boot into it repeatedly, knowing that the doorbell had been dead for years.

"Stan! Asshole! Open the door!" there was no answer and the short man huffed, growling slightly in the back of his throat, "I know you're home! You're always home and I lost my goddamn key!"

Once again no answer.

He just hoped his best friend could hear him over the storm.

Finally the door cracked open, what appeared to be the flickering light of a television the only thing visible.

"For god's sake Ky, if you are going to bash my door in, do it at a godly hour of the morning!" the noirette who owned the house peered through groggily, rubbing his sleep-fogged sapphire eyes.

"Stan!" Kyle pushed the door fully open and tackle-hugged his best friend, almost causing them to crash into the ground.

Stan half-heartedly glared, but, as usual, could not in the presence of the redhead. "Why the hell are you here at-" he checked the analogue clock on his wall, barely visible in the shadows, "-2:15 in the morning?"

"Nightmares," the other boy answered honestly.

"So you came here?"

"Yes."

"It's a fifteen minute drive." the noirette stated.

Kyle shrugged, "I was at Bebe's."

"Oh." Both knew that Bebe, Kyle's girlfriend since year eleven, lived a few roads down from them. They were nineteen now, living in rented houses and such until they found their niche in the world. "Couldn't she have helped?"

"No," Kyle shook his head, because the pretty blonde could not have. "Only you can, Stan."

He smiled back shyly.

Stan locked the door behind his friend and Kyle walked to the familiar kitchen as if in a dream, many a night had been spent similar to this.

The redhead pulled a chipped mug out of the leftmost cupboard, then cheap orange juice and a bottle of vodka out of the fridge and from Stan's secret stash beneath the sink, respectively. He also pulled a can of beer out of the tiny fridge for Stan.

"Thanks, dude," the black-haired man smiled, still sleepy but completely at ease with his best friend rifling through his things.

Kyle made himself a screwdriver before sitting on the bench, propped against the cupboards. Stan sculled half of his can in one go under Kyle's concerned frown, slouched in his only kitchen chair. The redhead took small sips of his screwdriver, wiping the back of his mouth after every one, eyes watery and gently relaxing as the alcohol slipped into his system, eventually curling his feet up under him and placing his mug beside him.

"You okay?"

"I shouldn't be here, Stan," Kyle half-sniffled, slipping with little grace back onto his feet.

Stan raised an eyebrow, "Why?"

"Bebe's going to have a flip out…"

"Why?" Stan asked again.

"Because she reckons something's going on, just because I need to talk to you… you are the only one that gets me, with everything that happened to us… especially when we were younger…" his eyes were pricking again and Stan knew exactly what nightmares had been plaguing his friend. Again.

"So what dude, she should understand, shouldn't she?"

Kyle shrugged, "But she doesn't, and I have just managed to wake you up and drip water all through your house..."

"I don't care Ky, you know I don't." Stan answered softly, "You know how I feel."

Kyle nodded, weary looking. He turned for the door but Stan already had his lips over Kyle's. Just lips against dry lips, but still effective. The redhead's eyes widened, then drooped, eyelids slipping halfway down as he melted against his best friend. A moment later his eyes snapped open, irises full of shock, wonder and then, finally, repulsion. Stan stopped in his tracks, there being a reason for him not doing this for so many years, a reason he was always told was just him being a total moron.

But he was right.

For then Kyle was gone, back out in the storm, and Stan was alone. Again.

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**A/N: I am actually thinking of writing a second chapter that resolves - somehow - whatever the hell I just did... I don't know, though, thoughts?**


End file.
